"How many?” he barked, and Golbfish realized that the kid's eyes were blue.
"Casualties? Four or five hundred, I think."
The muddy scarecrow winced. “No opposition?"
"Very little. How many did you leave behind?"
"Damned few,” D'ward said. “How many can't walk?"
Golbfish shrugged. “There are at least fifty still down on the beach. Up here ... I don't know. Another fifty?"
The Liberator groaned and wiped an arm across his face. It remained just as filthy as before. “You all right?"
"A trifle fatigued, perhaps. You, sir?"
Chuckle. Another groan. “Twisted an ankle, that's all.” The Liberator laid his injured foot on the ground and showed his teeth in a grimace. “My first battle,” he muttered.
Golbfish saw how his eyes were glistening, and felt a curious twinge of sympathy. Like him, D'ward was not a genuine soldier, was not hardened to being responsible for the lives of followers. Most leaders would have been cheering madly at this point, exulting in a brilliantly executed withdrawal. Twice now, D'ward had pulled off stunning reversals; twice he had made brilliant generalship look like child's play, and all he was concerned with was the cost.
"The river has taken its toll, but it was not the massacre the Thargians would have inflicted."
"We must see they don't get their chance yet.” D'ward eased himself to the ground. “Summon the troopleaders.” Ysian came and knelt beside him. She tried to wipe his face with a rag, and he waved her away irritably.
Soon the troopleaders gathered around, a bedraggled, shaken retinue, barely half the number who should have been there. D'ward appointed temporary substitutes and sent for them—there was no time for proper elections, he said. He seemed to know the names and abilities of every man, Joalians as well as Nagians.
Still sitting in the mud, leaning against a tree, he outlined what everyone already knew and did not want to think of. They had escaped from one trap, but only into a greater. The Thargians might recross the river and try to intercept their quarry before it could reach Moggpass. If not, they would head east to Tholford and block the road back to Nagvale. There would undoubtedly be many more armed men in Thargland itself. The reckoning had only been postponed.
"Now we must march,” he said. “Anyone who can't must stay. Form up."
The men were exhausted, but the alternative was death or slavery. The troopleaders exchanged glances, but no one objected.
D'ward hauled himself to his feet. Half a dozen men rushed forward to help, but he refused them. In obvious pain, he began to hobble forward. In a moment someone offered him a staff, freshly cut, and he accepted that. He was setting an example, but that was all he was capable of.
Kolgan had arrived, but he was still too shocked by pain and exposure to be any use at all. Marveling at the strange fate the fickle gods had thrust upon him—and cynically amused by it also—Golbfish took effective command and issued the necessary orders.
One woman and less than five thousand men set off on a journey of conquest and deliverance. The steady, chilling rain was both a physical torment and a promise of hope.
Behind them, the abandoned wounded screamed and pleaded until their voices faded into the distance.
35
"THARGVALE IS BEAUTIFUL,” EXETER SAID. “NATURALLY. IT'S VERY fertile, the climate is moderate, and it's ruled by an aristocracy."
"What has aristocracy got to do with beauty?” Smedley asked drowsily.
Mrs. Bodgley had shepherded her guests indoors to the drawing room and settled them in chairs. A single oil lamp cast a soft light on the four faces, while two moths held races around the glass chimney. Fortunately the chairs were excessively uncomfortable, or Smedley would not have been able to stay awake at all. Alice had reluctantly consented to play, insisting she was hopelessly out of practice. She had then executed a couple of Chopin études from memory. Very well, too, so far as he could tell. And now they were back on Nextdoor again.
"Oh, really, Captain!” His hostess's tone suggested that he was showing himself to be excessively ill informed. “It's a matter of tender loving care! The only people who can look after land properly are those who plan to hand it on to their children and grandchildren. Gilbert's father planted an avenue of oak trees, knowing he could never live to see their majesty. That was fifty years ago, and they need another hundred at least. Gilbert himself absolutely refused to countenance mining operations on our place in the Midlands. That sort of thing. Men who think only of their own lifetimes exploit land. Those who think of their families nurture it. Do help yourself to another cigar if you wish,” she added, as though regretting her scolding.
Smedley thanked her and heaved himself out of the lumpy chair even more gratefully. He went to the humidor. No Bodgleys would admire the oak trees in their prime. The Bodgley line had died out when Timothy was murdered. There was no one left to smoke the cigars, even.
Alice's eyes were twinkling in the lamp's gentle glow. “You can carry it too far, of course, like anything else. William the Conqueror depopulated whole counties to make royal deer forests. People have rights, too."
Mrs. Bodgley considered the point and seemed to decide that it was a dangerous heresy. “Not necessarily. People come and go, but land is forever."
Exeter flickered a wink at Smedley as he returned to his chair. “Do you suppose that aristocrats’ tendencies to make war all the time is a form of population control, weeding out the peasants?"
The lady saw the hook at once and bit it off. “Probably! Lancing a few of the men would be kinder than letting women and babies starve, wouldn't it?"
"Depends which end of the lance you're on, I expect. But land and war do seem to go together. The Thargian military caste is just as bad as Prussian Junkers."
Dogs of war howled in the night of the mind. “Dueling scars?” Smedley demanded.
"No, I don't think they go that far."
"Thargvale is like England?” asked Alice.
"It has the same organized, cared-for look. The vegetation is very different. Thargian trees are colorful. We have copper beeches and then dull old green. They have blue and gold and magenta and various other shades as well. But the great estates are beautiful. The farmland is one big garden. The wild parts are beautiful too—and yes, some of those are deer parks. There are no picturesque little villages, though, or not many. The slave barns are kept out of sight."
"Sparta?” Mrs. Bodgley murmured.
"Similar,” Exeter agreed. “I didn't see much of it at first. Partly because it was raining cats and dogs, partly because I twisted an ankle leaving Lemod and it took everything I had just to keep walking. The river crossing was a tricky business all round. Old Golbfish was the hero of the hour, organized the whole thing and rallied the troops. We were lucky with the weather. The river began to rise, so the Thargian army daren't come after us. The Lemodian guerrillas left us alone. By the second day we were into Moggpass. The Thargians had opened a trail—bridging streams, cutting through the avalanches, and so on, and that helped a lot. By the fourth day or thereabouts we came panting down into Thargvale and could start the looting and pillaging. We were half a year late, but that's what the original intention had been. Everyone had a great time."
"Except you?” Alice asked.
"I healed up quite quickly, actually. The troops were feeding me mana, although they didn't know it. Not that I deserved it, but that made no difference."
Smedley fought down a yawn. The carriage clock on the mantel estimated the time at around eleven. As soon as he finished the cigar he would excuse himself and head off to bed. Exeter's little war was interesting, but he had no need to hear any more about war for the next hundred years.